You’re at a retreat camp, and everyone looks like you and me — just a lot younger. Everyday people, lovely people. Then, after a couple of days of conversation, you ask the young man where he’s from, and he casually mentions he’s a discharged war veteran. Then there’s an evening panel discussion around the fire, and it turns out the baby-faced woman you’ve been sharing meals with is the commander of the medical unit of an assault brigade. She talks about the days when bombs hit their positions and everyone has to spring into action.
A Whistle in Her Pocket
At breakfast, I got talking with one of the lovely young women who work at CMA and helped organise the camp. I already knew she lives in a part of Kyiv that gets hit hard. But it was sobering to hear just how much more serious things have become. There’s no shelter in her apartment. She told me she’d have to cross the street to reach the nearest one — and she’s realised that’s dangerous in itself. The missiles come before you have time to cross. Besides, she’d never sleep, because the alerts come several times a day now. So she sleeps in the corridor instead.
She mentioned, quite casually, that her dad had been talking about buying tourniquets for the family and learning how to use them. Then we moved on, just as casually, to discussing whether she should carry a whistle. For those who don’t know: many Ukrainians do, so that if they’re caught under rubble, they can whistle for rescuers to find them.
And still, she smiled. Tomorrow she goes back to all of it. And she’d spent these days here helping other people rest.
Winning the War in Our Hearts
The next morning was a prayer walk with Natalia, the remarkable Ukrainian Christian psychologist who ran most of the retreat’s sessions. She spoke about how to make sense of something as incomprehensible as this kind of evil — how not to let anger and grief hollow you out from the inside, and how to win the war being fought in our own hearts.
Natalia works with people who have lived under occupation, been imprisoned and tortured in Russia, survived sexual abuse, lived in frontline villages, or survived bombings. And somehow she still radiates joy and peace.
Vegemite, Embroidery, and an International Night
The retreat closed with an International Night — groups from every country showcasing something of home: Taiwan, Singapore, the US, Sweden, Finland, Australia, and of course Ukraine. A group of wonderful Ukrainian women cooked us an incredible traditional feast. We ran a Vegemite tasting table, and — to our surprise — most Ukrainians liked it. Perhaps it’s because they’re already partial to salty, fermented foods. Jen, a nurse educator in mental health and trauma who’d come as a volunteer to run some training, had carried the jar all the way from Australia.
I gave a demonstration on snake bite first aid, since Ukrainians are endlessly fascinated by our snakes. It was a hit, with plenty of questions — and possibly a newfound appreciation for how much scarier our wildlife is than theirs. One of the doctors came up afterwards and gave me a brooch in the colours of the Ukrainian flag. I didn’t quite know what to say.
Ron introduced me to his two new friends he’d been chatting with on the camp. Dentists who casually told the story of the day that Russia invaded in 2022 – one of them had gone into a prison to do dental work knowing that the country was being invaded and knowing he might be locked down in there- but his friend – another dentist – apparently said “Don’t worry I’ll come and get you.” What a couple of characters! Thankfully Russia didnt make it as far as where they were.
A little girl came over to our table, and Jen admired her beautifully embroidered shirt. She pulled out her phone, opened Google Translate, and told us it was traditional Ukrainian embroidery. It was wonderful to see someone so young, so proud of her culture, and so keen to share it with strangers. Later, she stood up and recited some poetry by Ukraine’s national poet, Taras Shevchenko.
Australia’s Turn to Speak
When it was our turn to stand up at International Night, Ron spoke about his admiration for Ukraine’s unity at this time, and urged Ukrainians not to lose it — even as the rest of the world seems to be fracturing.
As we walked out afterwards, a young man stopped us. He looked like someone who had been through a great deal. He couldn’t speak English, but I understood enough of what he was saying. He thanked Ron for what he’d said, and hugged him — over and over. He told us his home was gone. He was from Donetsk Oblast. He now had a job here at the retreat. His land was gone, he said, but thank God he still had his life.
I asked where his town was. Pokrovsk, he told me — not far, it turns out, from my own grandfather’s village. He hugged Ron again, and we all stopped for a photo together. A small, touching moment to end on.
Back to Work, and a Reason to Hope
Back from camp, and straight back into work — meetings, the online medical education platform, more progress on the house. Then a dinner with CMA staff and the international teams from Sweden, the US, and Taiwan before they flew home.
One of the young CMA staff told me she — like many of the staff — regularly works double shifts, so she can free up time to help with international missions and CMA’s other work. Incredible, in itself. But what moved me most was what she shared afterwards: that without CMA’s work, she’d be in ‘a very bad place.’ That this work, and the people who keep showing up to help during this terrible invasion, had given her hope that there was still some good left in the world.
Home Is Home
Our dear friends Dr Mykola and Dr Oksana — the couple who live, work, and volunteer in one of the most dangerous parts of the country — were there too. They’d stayed on after the retreat to help with a local mobile clinic mission, ten days away from home by that point.
You’d think, given how dangerous their hometown is, that they’d have welcomed the time away. Instead, Oksana told me how much she couldn’t wait to get back. Their town has been relentlessly bombed. People have been killed on their own street. People they know have been hunted by FPV drones in nearby villages. But it turns out home is home, and nobody has the right to take that away from you.
They are wonderful doctors, and I was humbled when Dr Mykola told me how much my lectures had encouraged him — enough that he’d already changed some things in his own practice to prevent burnout. What a privilege, to help people like this in even the smallest way. I am genuinely blessed to know them.
Why This Matters
Moments like these are why Only Passing Thru keeps showing up — funding mobile clinics, medical education, and retreats like this one, so the people holding this country together don’t have to do it entirely alone. If you’d like to know how you can help keep that work going, you’ll find the details at What We Can Achieve With 200 heroes
2 comments
Such a good newsletter. It is embarrassingly humbling to see how much the Ukrainians appreciate an outsider trying to help. They have so much on their hearts and minds, yet they are generous and gracious.
so true!